paper faces on parade
by dame egocentrique
Summary: She has always wanted to be a Stark. But not this way. Never this way. Targaryen!Sansa
1. chapter one

**Chapter One**

Loud upbeat EDM rang through the penthouse, along with the sounds of people laughing and partying. The spacious flat was filled with people to the brim, from celebrities to ordinary university students. No one could say that Daenerys Targaryen didn't know how to host a party.

Sansa Targaryen flitted through the crowd, barely hiding her unease at the noise and at the appreciative yet guarded looks headed her way. She had a role to play today, the role she always had to play since she came screaming into the world, and she'll be damned if she slacked. _Family, duty, honor_ were the words of her favorite mentor's House, and if she believed and lived by it enough, she might let herself believe that the red of her hair was Tully red and that Catelyn Stark _nee_ Tully was her mother.

Sansa's head was filled with fancies like that, foolish they may be. Catelyn Stark was strong enough and eligible enough to be a mother of little ladies and lords, and Sansa's dead wildling mother was not. Better be a Tully than a naturalized Blackfyre.

But Blackfyres don't exist anymore. The shame of bastardy was eliminated by the Council of the Lords and the Natural Parliament fifty years prior to her birth. No more Snows, Sands, or Stones. But Sansa likes to call herself a Blackfyre in secret, daydreaming about the Blackfyres of the long gone past, even secretly owns a fake Twitter account by the name of Alayne Blackfyre. She was unnatural, unloved, unprotected. She doesn't feel like a Targaryen.

Nobody talks much about Sansa Targaryen. And if they do, it is to shake their heads and gossip about her controversial history, of how she came to be. Former King Aerys II, the Seven bless his soul, deemed it proper to sire another daughter with a daughter of a Magnar at the height of violence between the government and Free Folk separatist terrorists. The Thenns were one of the few respected Free Folk clans recognized by the state; and as Free Folk themselves, they were torn between the deep sated distrust for the state by their kin and their position in society. Alysane Thenn's sudden pregnancy, out of wedlock it may be, cemented the hold of the Targaryens over the most organized and distinguished clan of the Free Folk. The terrorists and their sympathizers have shunned the Thenns since then.

Speculations about the backstory of Alysane's shame went beyond her grave and followed around her daughter's life like a ghost. Were they in love? Probable but off-putting, since the late King was at most forty years older than the attractive and shy Alysane Thenn, and he wasn't known for being romantic. Was she forced? Perhaps, since no declarations of love and displays of affection filled their relationship, and it was so sudden into the King's three-months-fresh all-out war campaign against the separatists. But it was too reckless, even for the mad King, because if it was true otherwise the overly proud Thenns would have quickly broken their peace with the royal family a long time ago.

No, it was something else, something much, much more valuable than their kinsmen's freedom that made the Thenns choose to support the sovereignty of the state rather than break away from it and the Targaryens and the rest of Westeros to quickly accept the bastard red-haired Targaryen princess. It made Sansa itch thinking about it sometimes, like she was doing now, because she felt that knowing the reason somehow would make her existence more easily understood for her. But she only knew about her matriarchal side from the rare moments they were in the news, with the Thenns holing themselves up in their estate beyond the Wall after Sansa's birth, and the sole Thenn she has ever met was Sigorn Thenn, a senior from her high school two years ago. Sigorn ignored her every time their paths crossed, but sometimes she caught him looking at her with a strange look on his face.

Sansa would only realize right this day that it was pity that she saw on her cousin's face, and mixed with a little bit of longing.

She was now starting to get sick of receiving that look.

Harrold Hardying was standing in one corner of the room, sporting a wide smile and a glass of scotch in his hand. He was surrounded by other rich and attractive playboys, top eligible bachelors of Westeros, all of them laughing about whatever boys like him like to laugh about, and scouring the crowd for their flavor of the night. Sansa made the stupid mistake of accidentally crossing glances with him and watched his face morph into the familiar look of fake guilt and well-hidden arrogance. Harry Hardyng tried his best to understand Sansa Targaryen's clinginess and insecurities, oh yes, but it really wasn't meant to be.

She wanted to kill him so badly, ask a loyal Kingsguard to do the job for her, end all the fresh vicious rumors surrounding her again, but she wouldn't. No. _A lady's armor is her manners,_ and Sansa would rather date Harrold Hardyng again than afford to be a stereotypical rebellious orphan. She hated stereotypes. They brought too much attention and none at all. She deemed herself better this way, disappointing people with her lack of capacity to follow through with their clichéd expectations that primarily meant her personal self-destruction.

Sansa sighed. That's enough posturing for the night. If only Mya and Myranda were here, she would've stayed out 'til the cows came home. Or until sunrise. Whatever. Without Mya and Myranda, she was done. Only the two girls could convince her to stay out late, Myranda Royce with her scandalous words and brazen personality, and Mya Stone with her quick comebacks and mischievous self. Sansa shouldn't be so dependent on them, but that's a story for another day.

Sighing one more time, Sansa dumped her red cup in a nearby trashcan and grimaced at how trashed Dany's kitchen looks right now. She made her way to the rooms above, grateful that the penthouse had a guest room, one on the far end of the corridor.

As she walked to the far end of the corridor, the door to Dany's room opened. Stepping out were her silver-haired sister, laughing loudly with a dark-haired man.

Sansa took a sharp intake of breath and had the urge to run away as fast as she can. But she was Sansa Targaryen, and she stood her ground and planted an impassive look on her face.

The couple stopped laughing and glanced at Sansa once they noticed they weren't alone anymore. One had an instant bright smile on her face, the other went pale.

"My baby sister!" Daenerys opened her arms and went to Sansa, hugging her tightly. Trying to stop her heart from leaping out of her throat, Sansa hugged her back, albeit not as tightly. Daenerys was used to it, hugging a sibling who wouldn't do it with much enthusiasm as hers, so she didn't mind. "You made it!" her ethereally beautiful sister almost screamed in her ear so Sansa pulled back and smiled her usual fond smile.

"I like your parties, Dany, wouldn't miss it for the world," Sansa replied, and grinned as Dany rolled her eyes. Dany was older by four years, but had more childish moments than her younger red-haired sister. "Whatever you say, Sansa. Are you-" Dany stopped and furrowed her eyebrows, finally noticing where Sansa was. Sansa's heart couldn't beat any faster than it did now.

"Why are you retreating this early? Did someone-"

"No, Dany, I'm fine. I'm just tired from the flight, I guess," Sansa hastily replied. Dany's face morphed from burgeoning anger to concern. Sansa's heartbeat calmed down.

"Okay. Get your rest now, little dove," Dany then patted her cheek and let herself be guided away by the arm in her middle. She kissed the dark-haired man's cheek and smiled up at him lovingly. Something inside Sansa's chest clenched, and she gritted her teeth. _Softie Sansa._ She hates herself right now.

As she started to tear her eyes away from the couple, the dark-haired man snuck a glance at her. Sansa suddenly felt rooted to the ground, trapped under soulful brown eyes that regarded her with an emotion she couldn't figure out.

But the moment was over as soon as it began, and he turned away as they went down the stairs. She breathed a sigh, of relief, or of anything she didn't know. Sansa turned and walked to her room, her heart beating fast anew.

Jon Snow-Stark always had the most beautiful eyes.


	2. chapter two

**Chapter Two**

Sansa laid her head on the cold concrete tiles of the penthouse' shared bathroom. Waiting for the nausea to subside, the Targaryen princess pressed her cheeks and forehead to the bathroom floor. Used and crumpled pieces of toilet paper surrounded her; her auburn hair spread around her head like a halo.

She's sure she looks like a total waste.

The party went on until sleep finally took Sansa. But even in the early hours of morning, when the party was over and done (Daenerys was responsible like that), it wasn't the party sounds that disturbed her already fitful sleep.

It was the sounds emanating from her half-sister's bedroom that did it, loud and self-gratifying, and since then she was unable to sleep.

Sansa contemplated her situation. This was madness. She was just about to begin her short respite from the hectic theater rehearsals and was waiting for her flight when her half-sister called her phone and pleaded with her to go to her party. She should not have eagerly taken Daenerys' hospitality and acquiesced to her pleading. It was bad enough that after all these years she realized that was still like a child, eager to feel like she belonged, dropping anything even her dignity just to gain some semblance of acceptance from her paternal family. Bad enough that she stayed up for most of the night, putting up with _that_.

So now Sansa was stuck with a sickness much worse than hangover, even though she vowed never to touch alcohol again. It was getting worse, she noticed, but she paid no mind. It might be the stress of the rehearsals and lack of proper sleep for months now. She was hesitant to go to a doctor; it didn't feel like dying yet.

 _On the other hand, it might be..._

She whisked the thought away as fast as it came. No. It's not possible.

But the thought affected her more than she expected, so bile rose in her throat again, and she bent over the toilet to relieve herself.

After a few moments of heaving and heavy breathing, Sansa felt the world and her stomach turn right again. Pulling a wad out of the toilet paper roll she unceremoniously dumped by her side, she wiped her face clean from sweat and snot. She stood up and cleaned up the mess she made.

* * *

"You're not supposed to be here."

Warmth rushed to her cheeks as soon as she heard the too familiar low and quite voice. She looked up and looked right back at Jon Snow's glare indignantly. There was thrill, there was want, but right now, she wanted blood.

"This is my home-"

"No, it's Dany's. You're trying to make a point. You're failing," he interrupted her coldly. Cold, like the North. _They were both of the North_ , she wanted to whine. _We are both of the North. Don't you remember?_

 _Not anymore,_ Life whispered.

To her horror tears sprang to her eyes. She felt she looked like a headstrong toddler with tears in her eyes but a stubborn angry frown on her face. Toddler. Ha, pathetic.

She blinked quickly and tried to calm herself. But it only made things worse. "N-news flash, Snow. It's not yours too. Will never be yours, I daresay," she managed to breathe out and growl as menacingly as her family's sigil could. She moved around him, trying to get back up the stairs to her room again (and do something like pack quickly) when she felt a firm hand grab her upper arm.

Thrill. There it was again. But Sansa drew her arm back as violently as her anger could. Jon ignored it. "Are you sick?" he inquired. A tinge of concern lit up in his eyes amidst the ocean of indifference in there. Sansa wanted to laugh bitterly.

And huff bitterly she did. Rolled her eyes for good measure too. She was going for toddler today. There's bile rising in her throat again and she won't dare open her mouth. She's humiliated herself too much for twenty two years, a number of time too for Jon Snow. She wasn't keen on adding another hour or minute to that number.

She moved to walk away again when he grabbed her again. She tried to jerk back when he spoke again. "You didn't drink, didn't you? Dany told me you don't drink anymore." He trained his gray eyes on her, dark and scrutinizing her face. "Either you lied or she did."

Sansa sneered. She must look like a hag right now, messy hair and bitter mien. She tried pulling her arm back but he held it tighter. "Did you take the pill?" he half-whispered, half-growled.

She stopped. Time stopped. Everything stopped. She glanced up at Jon's face and saw he looked as pale as she probably was.

Gods.

Fucking.

Damn it.

She pulled her hand back, wrapped her hands tightly around her mouth and ran back up the stairs. She didn't hear him run after her, nor did he make any sound except a desperate whisper of "Sansa!" at her back. Upon reaching her room she pulled open one of the windows and threw her guts up. It was a penthouse, a penthouse with a garden, a penthouse with a garden and housekeepers and just had a party the night before. It would be easy to explain.

Pathetic Sansa Targaryen.


End file.
